“Okay.”
“We love you.”
“Love you, too,” I reply before I end the call.
When I walk into the kitchen, there’s no sign of Yuki and only one plate with steak, mashed potatoes, and corn on the cob.
Maybe she’s eating already?
I head to the dining room, and finding it empty, I go to the living room. When I still don’t find Yuki, worry slithers into my chest.
Just as I turn around so I can check the other two floors, I hear retching coming from the restroom.
Fuck. Did I upset her so much that she’s puking?
The door is ajar, and I nudge it open. Yuki’s face is ghostly pale and sweat shimmers on her skin. Her eyes widen when she sees me, but before she can panic, she leans over the toilet. The gagging coming from her sounds painful, and I quickly move closer.
When I brush her hair away from her face and press my palm to her forehead, she lets out a weak whimper.
“Are you allergic to anything you ate today?” I ask.
She shakes her head, and her eyes look feverish as she settles back on her haunches. “I think the food was too rich, and the champagne made it worse. I’ve been eating steamed rice to lose weight.”
I flush the toilet before picking her up.
As I carry her to her bedroom, I clench my jaw because I already know the answer as I ask, “Only steamed rice?”
Yuki nods, and too weak to even tense up around me, her head rests against my shoulder, then she whispers, “I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing for everything,” I say, my tone harsh from the anger brewing in my chest.
“I have to wash the dishes,” she mumbles sleepily.
“We have a dishwasher.” I focus on softening my tone. “I want you to get rest so your stomach can settle.”
When I place her down on her bed, her eyes drift over my face, then she asks, “You’re not angry with me?”
“Of course not.” Noticing her dress isn’t covering her ass, I grab the covers and quickly drape them over her lower half. “Try to get some rest.”
Yuki keeps staring at me, and it has me sitting down on the side of the bed. Unable to resist the urge, I gently caress her hair the way Mom does with us when we’re sick.
Yuki’s features tighten, and as she keeps her eyes locked with mine, hers begin to shine with unshed tears.
“Everything will be okay,” I say, trying to reassure her. “Tomorrow, my mom will take you shopping for everything you need. Choose clothes and shoes you’re comfortable with.”
“I’m used to wearing men’s clothes,” she admits, her voice small and fragile.
“If that’s what you want to wear, I’m fine with it. Do you want to wear some of my clothes in the meantime?”
She quickly shakes her head. “Thank you for the offer, but you’re twice my size. Nothing will fit.”
Wanting to get to know her better, I ask, “For how long did you pretend to be a man?”
“Since my brother and I were separated. I was eleven.”
My eyebrow lifts. “Why did you pretend to be your brother, and where is he?”
Instantly, Yuki shuts down and lowers her eyes from mine.
